“I love Rosalie,” I tell him honestly. “I’d do anything for her. Even keep her away from you.”
“Rosalie,” he repeats with a smile, letting my snide comment slide. “Which brings me to my question. Why didn’t you tell her who she is? That she was kidnapped?”
“She’s dealing with a lot. She’s…”
“Fragile,” he fills in for me, and I nod. He shakes his head. “She might surprise you. I sense a strength in her.”
“I err on the side of caution.”
“Probably smart.” The flames from the fireplace light his face. He looks so much like Rosalie it’s kind of freaking me out. “Listen, I might be a bad man, but I’m not unreasonable. I understand why you didn’t want to bring her to me.”
No shit. “I left the decision up to her.”
“Do you always let your women have your balls?”
I suppress a laugh. I don’t think Ivan’s trying to be funny. He’s so deadpan and direct.
Shrugging, I answer, “She’s the first girl I’ve ever been serious about.”
“How serious?” With his elbows on his knees, he leans forward. “Would you give up your life for hers?”
“Without hesitation,” I confirm. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, though, because she needs me. She doesn’t understand the world like you and I do, and I want to be with her every step of the way. We want a future together.”
“I figured, since you married her.”
“She told you?”
“I think she was trying to convince me not to kill you.”
“And what have you decided about that?”
Silence stretches between us. Ivan’s expression is blank as he stares me down with his mismatched eyes, and I hold his gaze, refusing to cower. I’m sure some men have pissed their pants from that look, but maybe I take comfort in the fact that he’ll have to face Rosalie’s wrath if he touches a hair on my head. She’d give him hell.
“Someday, will you—” Ivan’s hard mask slips as his gaze drops to his hands. “—will you tell my daughter the truth about her past? Can you try to make it easy on her?”
He’s talking like Rosalie and I are going to get the future I’m asking for. Like he isn’t going to blow my brains out for disobeying him and running off with his money and his only living relative.
“You’re letting us go? What’s the catch?”
Ivan chuckles. “You mean, why are you not dead where you sit?”
“A guy does wonder these things.”
“You’re the best person for my daughter. I can see that.”
“But?”
“But nothing. I admit my plan wasn’t completely formulated when it comes to her. When I found out about her, all I knew was that I wanted her with me in my gray, morally questionable world. But after that? Keeping her safe? My options are limited because being my daughter makes her a target for all my enemies. I considered making her stay here, but that would make me no better than Loralee. Or I could ship her off to a private school in Switzerland. I also thought about marrying her off to one of my associates—a man I know would protect her.”
I growl at the last part. The thought of Rosalie being given to some guy is enraging.
“Easy.” Humor tugs at Ivan’s mouth as he holds out a hand. “She’s already done that, which makes my decision simple.”
“What decision?”
“I want you to take care of her. Make her happy. I love her, Ethan. I would die before I let anything happen to her. It seems you feel the same, and that’s the best outcome I could possibly hope for.”
I search Ivan’s face for a sign of deceit, any hint that he might be toying with me. I find none. I don’t have time to be too elated about it, though, because a distant crash comes from somewhere in the house.
Ivan tilts his head. “I think it’s dinner time.”
Another crash, along with some yelling.
I wince. “And I think Rosalie might be done with the shower.”
Both of us hurry out into the foyer, and Rosalie’s screaming can be heard from somewhere behind the wide curved staircase.
“I did what you said!” Crash. “Now where’s Preston? You told me he’d be here.” Crash, crash. “I swear if he’s hurt…”
Trailing behind Ivan, I follow him through a swinging door. The kitchen is just as grand as the rest of the house. Marble countertops. Stainless steel appliances. A restaurant-grade stove.
Rosalie’s in a standoff with the maid. Her hair is wet and wild, sticking to her sneering face. Wearing just a pink robe, she’s planted by an open cabinet, and she’s got a stack of plates in her hand. There are sharp shards of destroyed dishes all around her bare feet.
“Baby,” I rasp, walking forward. Rosalie’s eyes light up at the sight of me, and she looks like she wants to run to me. I shake my head. “Don’t move.”
After removing the plates from her hands, I scoop her up. Broken pieces crunch under my shoes as I carry her away from the mess.
Ivan seems unfazed by her fit or the fact that she isn’t dressed properly. Elegantly sweeping his arm out, he asks, “Shall we eat in the dining room?”
Rosalie turns up her nose. “I’d rather eat in my room with Preston.”
“Let’s hear him out.” I kiss the top of her head.
She narrows her eyes like I just betrayed her. “You want to spend time with this guy after what he did to us?”
I can admit when I’m wrong. Yeah, my assumptions about who Ivan is as a person were right. He’s a criminal.
However, I largely underestimated his love for his daughter.
I’d thought his drive to find her was fueled by pride and a sense of ownership. Maybe he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else raising his kid. But it’s not like that at all.
He and I aren’t too different when it comes to her. We’d both break the law just to make sure she’s safe. We’d compromise our very souls for her happiness.
He went after us the way he did because he didn’t know my intentions. He didn’t know how much I love her.
Now he does, and he wouldn’t hurt me if it meant hurting Rosalie in the process. I’m sure of it.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I tell her, and Ivan nods in agreement before leading us into a big room with a long eighteen-seat table.
A dim glow comes from a chandelier with fake candlesticks. Old paintings—no doubt expensive originals—hang on the beige walls. Mauve curtains frame the tall windows overlooking the backyard where there are some trimmed bushes and gardens lit up by solar spotlights.
Ivan pulls out the chair at the head of the table, and I place Rosalie in it. I sit adjacent to her, and Ivan takes the seat across from me.
Food is already spread out on domed dishes. When I remove the top from my plate, it’s a gourmet meal of filet mignon, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Steam wafts up, and my mouth waters.
“Normally Helga would cook for us.” Ivan waves his cloth napkin at the food before covering his lap with it. “But tonight I had Igor stop by one of my favorite restaurants. I hope you like it.”